:thinking:

I think I should start by admitting that I've had the beginnings of what people would consider suicidal thoughts. I know that suicide ideation requires planning of method, time, place, etc. so I should not kid myself in thinking I've gone that far, but I have been thinking about it much more than usual.

It's pretty pathetic though, which is why I chose to write it on my blog which I haven't posted in a while. The ironic thing is I think a lot of it is stress from job hunting but this absolutely does only harm in a job hunt by putting your mental health on the internet. I say stress from job hunting when in fact everything is my own fault and I have not really done much about it because of a mental block. I supposedly pride myself on being adaptable but can't seem to manage something that supposedly everyone does. I remember a lot of things in different orders that I wanted to include in this post. One of them was just thinking about a friend whom I visited many times in the hospital when he was checked in for mental health. That friend told me the doctors were not helping, but the sheer helplessness and hatred of the situation he was in (having his movement controlled, meds, etc.) made him absolutely want to never go back and motivated him to try and get better. That's just honestly, very tragic... I don't know, perhaps we are being selfish by being depressed, and that logic of the system only seems to confirm this. A shame that most things are a lie these days and for all days. I should read Kurt Vonnegut after Infinite Jest.

The other thing I wanted to include was this poem, and perhaps 2, both of which I was crying to when they were spoken by Professor Natasha Trethewey  during Weinberg's convocation. I took this from Emory's website:

Musee des Beaux Arts
W. H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

It takes up a good chunk of the text, so I'm not going to write the other way here. I told a few brothers this, but the true banality of the poem manifested itself in the setting of its delivery - while I listened intently in awe at how ... correct... the poem was, my two neighbouring graduates were looking at their phones, maybe listening, maybe not, maybe texting about how someone was crying next to them, or how depressing the speaker was, and how they didn't need to hear it, because ironically, her tragic life, was not an important failure to them either. But it certainly helped me to feel, and that's how I know I can carry on, or how I know I must learn to praise the mutilated world.

Soon I will have to leave my blog as is and write other things.

The poem goes even further; it reminds me of times when I felt that the suffering of others was not my own, and I had somewhere to get to and I sailed calmly on. Right now it frightens me how little I can do for others, how little attention the homeless man sleeping on a pile of soft garbage must get, and yet he carries on because he must. And yet I am upset over my own privileged life because I am upset that he does not get that same opportunity, and I believe the system will only benefit me if I play it. But this is not true, according to everyone around me, and yet this is not what my classes have taught me, but surely this is what all the fancy-clothed people around me must believe, as they stroll past Icarus in the dumpster. How curious that it follows the opposite pattern as another story I've been thinking of lately, the Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas, which if you have not read... well you should and if you've forgetten its premise, you could catch up with this well-written article.

My mind strays then to the Little Match Girl, another story about poverty... But what is this abstract poverty I'm thinking of? Am I not just romanticizing the poor and exploited? That is when I think of Brave New World, about a happy socially-stratified country which somehow still makes absolutely no sense. Because maybe the book was about how happiness is meaningless without freedom, yet today the latter is easily traded, and you would be childish to go against the meta. OK, I think I've cried enough for now.